Know More
by moonlighten
Summary: 2010: America's belongings start to go missing whenever he spends the night at England's house, and England worries there might be something nefarious afoot. (America/England.) Multi-chapter, complete. Part of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Chapter 1

The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.  
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September, 2010; London, England**

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"Hey, England? Have you seen my shoes?"

England can't see anything other than the inside of his own eyelids, and he'd prefer it to stay that way. He opens his mouth to tell America as much, but discovers in the process that he can't quite summon up sufficient energy to speak. Instead, he just grunts in what he hopes is a suitably negative-sounding fashion, and then turns over, dragging the duvet along with him, pulling it close around himself in an effort to trap the lingering remnants of America's body heat against his skin.

"I swear I left them right _here_ ," America continues in his normal speaking voice, which sounds cacophonously loud at whatever ungodly hour of far-too-fucking-early in the morning it is.

England likes to ease into the day gently and quietly, with a lukewarm shower followed by lukewarm tea, and, most importantly, with all conversations before eight o'clock - if they honestly can't be postponed to a more reasonable time - conducted in hushed, measured tones.

He puts his pillow over his head along, and then holds its ends down, covering his ears.

Unfortunately, his makeshift earplugs do little to muffle the noise of America slapping his hands down on the floor in exasperation, nor the subsequent racket he makes as he stomps around the room, opening and then slamming closed drawers and wardrobe doors.

England deliberately slows and deepens his breathing, but to no avail. What little drowsy warmth he'd managed to hold onto when America first slipped out of his bed has seeped away from his body, and with it, any chance he might have had at getting back to sleep, even though it's only...

He lifts one corner of the pillow, and glances at the clock on his bedside table. The glowing numbers proclaim it to be six o'clock. Not as bad as England had anticipated, but still far-too-fucking-early for him to be up when he has no need to be.

"Why don't you come back to bed?" he thus suggests. "We can look for your shoes together later."

"I can't," America says, sounding gratifyingly rueful, but adamant all the same. "I've got that big meeting back home tomorrow, remember? I'll never make it if I miss my flight. Look, I'm just going to—"

He doesn't finish his warning before turning the light on, and even through England screws his eyes tightly closed as quickly as possible, it's too late. The sudden brightness feels to pierce his head all the way through to the back of his skull, snapping his mind into full alertness.

He sighs, and starts pushing himself up into a sitting position. "I'll help you look," he says.  
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* * *

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There is no evidence of America's shoes in any of their more usual habitats, such as the porch, hallway floor, or kicked under one of the sofas in the living room, so England widens his search to encompass the unusual. He searches the pantry, cellar, and attic, even though he hasn't seen America so much as step a foot inside them, on this visit or any of his previous ones.

He very nearly doesn't check the garden, reasoning there's no possible chance that the shoes could have found their way there. It's been pissing it down without pause for the entire duration of America's brief stay, and he and England hadn't ventured outside once as a consequence.

But there, in the garden, they are, nestled beneath one of England's rosebushes.

America, when England calls him over to collect them, doesn't seem perturbed by their bizarre location. He's in too much of a panicky rush by that point, seemingly, and just pours out the rainwater that has collected within them, shoves them on his feet, and - after pressing a fleeting kiss to England's cheek - hurries away to jump in the waiting taxi that will take him to the airport.

England, however, lingers in the garden long after America has left, staring down at the shallow depressions that the shoes had pressed into the recently-turned soil of his flower bed.

Whilst randomly relocating footwear is far from the most terrifying manifestation of the art he's ever encountered, it does have the unmistakable whiff of magic about it. Quite literally, in fact. When England leans forward to check, there's a faint hint of burning sulphur - of spent magic - clinging to the leaves of his rosebush.

If his morning's inconvenience had been the work of a curse, then it had been of the very mildest and pettiest kind. The kind that Scotland had delighted in laying upon him when they were children.

He can't think of anything he might have done recently to warrant such treatment - much less what _America_ might have done; it had been his shoes that had gone walkabouts, after all - but where he and Scotland were concerned, no excuse was too small.

And the _curse_ was so small that it's not really worth expending the magic it would take to retaliate against it. England should be the bigger man. He should—

He can imagine Scotland's smirking face with horrible clarity; how smug he must be, thinking of the frustrations he'd brought to England's day from afar.

When he returns to the house, England heads straight down to his cellar, where his spell books are stored, and spends the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon reading up on the sort of curses that might be suitable for revenge.  
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* * *

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The next time America stays the night at England's, his glasses have disappeared the bedside table when they awake. England finds them behind one of the bookcases in his library.

The next time, it's the keys to his hire car, which eventually resurface in the middle of a pile of towels that are stacked in the airing cupboard.

When he tracks America's lost mobile phone down to the boot of his Bentley, England finally recognises that there's a pattern to all of it.  
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* * *

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"I know it was you, because I found everything that was stolen stashed away in your favourite hideyholes," England tells George, hunkering down on his haunches to bring himself closer to the gnome's diminutive level.

George stares up at him, its pitch black eyes glittering and, to England's mind, looking thoroughly unrepentant.

"Well, it stops now. It's just not on. America's my guest, and in this house, guests are to be treated with respect. Understand?"

As George can barely understand more than three words of human speech by England's last count, it's doubtful it _does_ understand, but its wrinkled little face does contort into an expression which chooses England chooses to interpret as thoughtful. Likely, it's simply reacting to the stern tone of his voice, but England has found just that to be an effective curative for his fae's more obnoxious conduct in the past, where reasoning with them is impossible.

"Just... Just stay out of America's way in the future," he says, gingerly giving the gnome's tiny shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "And please leave his belongings alone."

George bobs its head in what looks to be an accepting nod, its mouth splitting wide in a grin, showing off every one of its jagged, yellowing predator's teeth.  
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* * *

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America's belongings do remain safe on his next visit, which is more that can be said for the nation himself.

He and England had just settled down together on the sofa in the living room after dinner, where England was to be subjected to one of America's dreadful, far-fetched films about bad CGI aliens that he'd somehow been cajoled into watching, and the instant America slides his arm around England's shoulders, drawing him close against his side, George manifests at their feet in a puff of glittering smoke.

Before England can react, George opens its mouth and sinks its teeth deep into America's leg.

"You little shit!" England says, lunging for the gnome, but it pops out of the material plane again before he can close his hands around its scrawny little throat.

"What the hell was that?" America asks, rubbing at his calf where pinpricks of blood are already starting to well through the fabric of his jeans. "It felt like something bit me!"

"It did," England says, patting America's bowed back apologetically. "It was one of my fae, I'm afraid."

Although America no longer reacts to England's talk of the fae with the derision he used to, but, lacking the Sight and, before now, lacking any evidence of their existence, he's still a sceptic. He rolls his eyes a little. "Why would it do that?"

"I have absolutely no idea," England has to admit.  
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* * *

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Two weeks and countless hours of research later, England's still clueless, and - very reluctantly - concedes he may benefit from an outside perspective on the matter. To that end, he invites Scotland and Wales to partake of a few beers together at his local, where they always get most of their best thinking done.

Two heads are better than one, after all. And three should surely get to the root of the matter in no time.

"It sounds like it's jealous to me," Scotland says after England has finished his account of George's recent forays into petty larceny and unprovoked violence.

Or perhaps not.

"Jealous?" England repeats dubiously. "I'm not sure they're capable of it. I've certainly never seen one act like this before. Do any of your fae ever get jealous?"

"There's nothing for them to get jealous of," Wales says, morosely peering down into the rapidly dwindling depths of his pint.

England ignores him, not wanting to risk getting drawn into yet another uncomfortable conversation about the current woeful state of Wales' love life, and turns in his seat to make it clear it that he's giving Scotland his full attention, instead.

Scotland rewards this partiality by taking his sweet time about answering. He drains his own pint, then nods meaningfully at the bar, all in silence.

When England returns with a fresh round of drinks, he finally sees fit to say, "Naw, the _ùruisg_ love France." He frowns. "Perhaps a little too much, actually. They keep stealing his hair; snatching it off the bristles of his brush and the like, you ken. Turns out they've built themselves a little nest, or shrine, or something out of it up in my attic."

"How odd," England says, but only because he doesn't want to antagonise his brother when he still needs his help. Privately, though, he doesn't think it particularly strange behaviour. The fae are often mirrors to their nations, and he wouldn't be at all surprised to discover that Scotland had made his own creepy hair-shrine-thing at some point in the past.

"Aye, but me and France... They've had centuries to get used to it, right? Your fae, they're used to you being..." Scotland flushes slightly, and he takes a turn at contemplating the inside of this pint glass instead of meeting England's eyes. "Well, they always had your undivided attention before, and this thing with America's still really new to them, isn't it. They probably just need some more time to come round to the idea."

"Fantastic." England groans. "And what do you suggest I do in the interim? I don't want America to get bitten again, but I have no intention of stopping inviting him to stay, either."

He doesn't want George to think he's won and succeeded in driving him off, in any case.

Scotland just shrugs uselessly, but Wales pipes up with: "I wonder if training George might help? I used positive reinforcement with my _gwyllgi_ when he started chasing cats, and it worked wonders."

"But George isn't a dog, Wales. Spectral or otherwise."

"Well, it can't hurt to try," Wales insists. "Do you have any better ideas?"

England doesn't. "I suppose I can give it a go," he says.  
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 **Notes:**

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ùruisg -_ brownies

 _gwyllgi_ \- spectral black dog of Wales


	2. Chapter 2

Training methods have moved on a long way since England last owned a dog, when it was widely believed that most bad behaviour on their part could be corrected by a swift tap on the behind with a rolled-up newspaper.

The positive reinforcement Wales had suggested - offering a reward for good behaviour to reinforce it so that it's more likely to be repeated - does seem to be the order of the day now, judging by the many websites on the subject he's consulted over the past few days. A technique that builds trust, and should therefore encourage cooperation and lessen the possibility that George might take exception to his treatment of it, and turn him into the target of its aggression in America's stead.

Armed with a pouch full of dead mice - a delicacy which George adores - and a printout of an article about curing jealousy in dogs, England sets out to mould George into a kinder, gentler version of itself.  
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Step One: Desensitise the Dog to the Object of its Jealousy's Scent**

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"Here," England says, waving an old T-shirt of America's in front of the region of George's face that would have housed a nose, were his face anything other than a roughly sketched facsimile of a human's. "Have a sniff at that."

George leans forward cautiously, snuffles at the shirt, then hisses like a disgruntled cat, which isn't exactly _good_ behaviour, but is significantly better than England had anticipated.

He throws it one of the mice, and George devours the body with a few sharp snaps of its teeth, sucking in the tail like an errant strand of spaghetti.

It starts hissing again almost immediately afterwards, and swipes at the T-shirt with its pin-sharp claws, rending the thin fabric.

"No," England snaps without thinking, but then forces himself to swallow back the next admonishment that rises reflexively in his throat. Impugning the good name of the gnome's hypothetical parents, as is his instinctive reaction, would hardly be positive.

Unfortunately, he can't think of any positive ways to put a stop to George's determined shredding. In desperation, he chucks one of the mice to the far side of the living room, and hastily shoves the now-ragged T-shirt into one of his dressing gown's capacious pockets. It probably smells _too_ strongly of America, and he needs something with a less... piquant bouquet at this early stage.

One of America's pens, perhaps. He can't seem to keep any in his possession for more than a hour or so, and England always finds a few of them scattered about his house following America's visits, barely used, but lightly chewed at the end all the same.

George glowers at England when it returns from hoovering up the mouse, clearly angry that its new chew toy has been taken away from it. It soon tracks down England's makeshift hiding place, though, then grabs the T-shirt out of it. It bundles it up in its arms then buggers off along with it to parts unknown.

England heaves a despondent sigh, hoping he hasn't now inadvertently reinforced in George's mind that the best way to keep hold of any of America's belongings that tickle his fancy is to spirit them away as quickly as possible; exactly the behaviour he was trying to train out of him in the first place.  
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Step Two: Reassurance**

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Dogs are often jealous, the article informs England, because they are insecure about their place in their owner's life, which pushes them towards neediness and bad behaviour in order to direct attention back towards themselves.

The owner should, therefore, spend time with the dog, shower it with affection, to ensure that it feels loved.

England does not make a habit of petting his fae. Whilst he doesn't share Northern Ireland's revulsion at the prospect, he does agree with his little brother's assessment that touching them is akin to touching a slug.

They feel cold and a little slimy, and when he tentatively scratches George behind one of its pointed ears, the foul-smelling gunk its skin excretes gets caught up under his nails and drips off the end of his fingers.

He wipes them off on his trouser leg, and settles instead for patting George on top of his safely behatted head.

George watches his hand warily.

"Good... gnome," England says, in his softest, most soothing tone. "See, we're still friends."

He smiles at George. George growls at him in return.

"Just because America's around here more often, it doesn't mean I don't... don't care for you anymore." George tries to squirm away from him, but England holds firm and continues his determined patting. "You were here before he was, and, if... if things don't work out on that score, no doubt you'll be here long after—"

George darts forward suddenly, and drives its knee with all its might into England's crotch. The gnome might not have a great deal of might, but its knee is sharp and bony, and the strike hits home with sufficient accuracy that it brings tears to England's eyes and knocks the air from his lungs.

Whilst England is doubled over, spitting mangled curses and seeing stars, George makes good his escape, chittering indignantly.

Apparently, it likes its affection to be distant and hands-off, just as is England's own preference with all but a select few. Good to know, but not exactly useful when it comes to its training.

England will have to attempt a different approach.  
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Step Three: Involve the Object of Jealousy in the Training**

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"Here, take this," England says, holding a mouse out towards America.

Despite his grimace of distaste at the sight of it, America takes hold of it by the very tip of its tail, even before asking, "Why?"

"I'm trying to train George," England explains.

America cocks one eyebrow quizzically. "Who's George?"

"It's one of my fae. A gnome, to be precise. I named it after one of my old Kings, because it reminded me..." America's amused expression reminds England very much of the one Wales' had worn when England had attempted to explain George's name to him. As England would very much like to avoid the mocking laughter that had followed then, he swiftly changes tack. "Anyway, it's the one that bit you, stole your glasses and so on. I'm trying to teach it to behave itself around you."

"By giving it dead mice?" America asks, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

"By getting it to associate good things with you," England says. "It's taken a bit of a dislike to you, I'm afraid."

"Why? I haven't done anything to it." Obviously realising that he has no real way of knowing whether or not he's ever acted in a way that might offend the sensibilities of something he can't even see, America anxiously asks, "Have I?"

"No, of course not," England is quick to reassure him. "He's only..."

And England realises that he doesn't want America to know that he's unknowingly locked in a battle for England's affections with a cantankerous little creature with a face only the most myopic of mothers could love. No doubt America found find the idea ridiculous, and the mockery England had only just managed to evade would surely ensue.

"The fae are capricious things," he says. "Not even I know why they act like the do sometimes."

"So, what do you want me to do with this?" America asks, jiggling the mouse a little.

"Just hold it around _here_ " — England gestures towards his own knee — "and wait."

Although America's smirk suggests that he _does_ think England's being slightly ridiculous, he complies readily enough.

George, who had been slinking around nearby, glaring balefully at America, stops dead in his tracks, and sniffs loudly.

"That's it!" England gives him an encouraging smile. "Come see what America's got for you."

George takes two cautious steps forward, stops again, and then makes a darting rush for America's hand, whereupon he snatches not only the mouse, but several strips of skin from America's fingers in the process.

 _Fantastic_ , England thinks dully as he races off to fetch the first aid kit from his bathroom cabinet. _Back to the drawing board it is, then_.  
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Step Four: Consult an Expert**

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As England can hardly employ the expertise of a professional dog trainer, he instead calls Wales for advice, hoping that his brother might be able to spot where he's going wrong.

Wales, however, just reiterates everything England has already tried, insisting that he curbed his _gwyllgi_ 's cat-chasing ways with well-timed treats, and, "Plenty of hugs."

"Hugs?" England echoes in disbelief. Wales' _gwyllgi_ is the size of a calf and has breath like an open sewer; England would never dare bring his face in such close proximity with it.

"Yes, hugs," Wales repeats, a little snippily. "Some things _do_ enjoy them, you know."

"I don't think George would," England says. "He kneed me in the bollocks just for patting his head."

"It does sound as though they're not the best course of action, then," Wales concedes. "Well, it seems as though you've been doing everything else right, but I wonder... I wonder if you're just trying to treat the symptoms rather than the disease."

"How so?"

"Perhaps George is just lonely, full stop. It's been with you for centuries now, and probably never seen another one of its kind in all that time." Wales sniffling in a suspiciously watery-sounding way, and England readies himself to end the call in an instant, should the threatened tears set in. "Maybe you should invite another gnome to join you?"

"Gnomes tend to be solitary, I'm fairly certain it's not hankering after company like that." Another bout of sniffles from Wales hastens England to add, "But I'll certainly bear it in mind."

That answer seems to please Wales, but England has absolutely no intention on following through on his promise, come what may.

He can barely cope with just _one_ gnome, after all.  
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Step Five: Where All Else Fails, Redirect**

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England had found that the easiest way to keep America safe from George was by throwing a steady stream of dead mice its way until such time as it was so satiated that it wandered away of its own accord in order to sleep off the meal.

Whilst that method may be effective, having to keep a large stash of rodent corpses on his person at all times was hardly conducive to a romantic atmosphere, and England was sadly unsurprised when America started displaying reluctance to spend the night at his house during his visits to London.

He's almost certain that a request to meet up at the hotel room America's people still persisted in booking him was sure to follow, had he not stumbled onto a much better solution by pure happenstance, namely George materialising without warning between America and himself, claws unsheathed and mouth open wide, and so suddenly that England didn't have the presence of mind to reach for the mice.

Instead, he'd upended the glass of wine he was holding over George's head.

George had shrieked like one of Ireland's _ban síde_ s, shot him a wounded look, and then disappeared in a cloud of black, sulphurous smoke.

Effective, but not exactly a good long-term solution - it took England hours to get the wine stain out of his carpet - so the next time America came to stay, England prepared ahead, and had a spray bottle full of water on hand.

Every time George so much as looked in America's direction, he got squirted, and by time America headed off home again, George would turn tail and flee soon as he caught sight of the bottle, whether England happened to be anywhere near it at the time or no.

It was far from positive, but reinforcement all the same, and a much more palatable one for both America and England than the mice.  
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* * *

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When the threat of George's displeasure still loomed large, England hadn't dared spend time with America in the garden. There were just too many places to hide, too many angles of attack, and England hadn't trusted that he would be able to cover them all.

Now they have the sturdy shield of the Bottle to protect them, England takes a great deal of satisfaction in being able to sit outside after dinner as they used to, back before the nature of his relationship with America changed, and George's jealousy issues reared their head.

America looks significantly less gratified by this development, however. He's shivering slightly, even though he's bundled up in both a jumper and thick jacket in contrast to England's shirtsleeves, he's clearly not finding this autumnal evening quite so unseasonably balmy as England does himself.

Still, he's yet to complain about the faint nip in the air, or to suggest that they move inside, so England simply moves in closer, takes hold of America's chilled hands and chafes them between his own, hoping to buy himself a little while longer to enjoy the moment.

To enjoy the sweet scent of late-blooming flowers, the soft sound of the breeze rustling through the few browning leaves that remain on his apple trees. The sight of his unicorn crossing the lawn towards him, stepping light across the grass.

It's always been a favourite of England's - not least because, centuries ago, it decided that it preferred England's company to Scotland's - but is usually too shy to approach him when he has company, and he's both surprised and delighted to see it.

Delighted, that is, until it draws near enough that he can see that its ears are pinned, lying flat back against its neck, its teeth are bared, and its eyes are fixed with predatorial intent upon America.

England sighs heavily. He doubts that bottle will prove his saviour this time; given the unicorn's size, it's doubtful it would even notice that it was being sprayed by it.

He drops America's hands and heads towards the shed to fetch his hose.


End file.
